


A Night to Forget

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse and attempted rape (pre-fic), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, But a lot of the angst actually lol, F/M, Little bit of Fluff, Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:53:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9712211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Margaery and Jeyne convince Sansa to go partying on Valentine's. Sansa was expecting drinks and laughter and a fun girls' night out.Sansa was not expecting to spend her Valentine's with a strange man.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [autumnnnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnnnn/gifts).



> [For autumnnnn, who requested a secret santa fic that I never got the chance to write – so here’s a Valentine’s Day one instead. (I did finally come up with a secret santa fic plot though, if you don’t mind waiting like 10 months for it :P )
> 
> Inspired by the book Losing It by Cora Carmack. This was meant to be something short, but instead it just…kept going lol. Also, warning for alcohol and mentions of abuse/rape.
> 
> Anyways, Happy Valentine’s Day, I hope you like this! :D]

 

           “No really, you guys. I’m alright.”

            It had been hours now, and still they would not relent. From the look of their faces, Sansa knew she wasn’t going to get through to her friends. They had that _determined_ look; that _we-will-literally-drag-you-through-the-seven-hells-kicking-and-screaming_ sort of determined look. Margaery even had her hands firmly planted on her hips, a sure sign that there was absolutely no way Sansa was going to get out of tonight.

            Still, might as well try.

            “Honestly, I’m fine just staying in today.”

            “Come _ooon_ , girl,” Margaery whined. Her hands hadn’t moved, and from the sound of her voice, neither had her mind. “You’ve been sulking around ever since the end of last semester. Before, even. And as your friends, we let you wallow in your grief. We’ve brought you your favorite gelato and watched your favorite rom-coms to cheer you up. But now’s the time to wipe that douchecanoe from your mind and become _you_ again.”

            Jeyne was nodding assent to Margaery’s words. By herself, Jeyne would have relented and opted to watch more cheesy romantic movies with Sansa. They were old friends from way back in elementary school. They just _got_ each other.

            But Margaery… She was great, and hilarious, and beautiful – all of which Sansa had to admit. But there were always thorns hidden behind her soft brown eyes and crooked smiles. You’d have to pray to every god, new and old and forgotten, to fight against Margaery Tyrell and _win_.

            “Marg, I just… I don’t know if I’m up to it. After Joff, I wasn’t sure I could try again. But I did. And then there was Ramsay, and I…” Sansa’s voice cracked.

            The girls were on her in half a heartbeat. Their arms wrapped around Sansa, their words soft and comforting. If there was one thing Sansa did have, it was shitty luck with boys. Two times she fell madly in love, and two times she fell out, broken and beaten and weeping. The gods were kind to her in many regards, but not love – she still had the scars to prove it.

            Jeyne told Sansa she was too amazing for scum like those assholes and that her shining knight would come for her soon. Margaery was plotting how to hide their bodies. Sansa wanted to cry for having such beautiful friends. She did, but only a little.

            “Sans, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

            Sansa wiped the last errant tear from the corner of her eye. “It’s alright, Marg. I’m just… Why are boys so gods-damn _awful_?”

            All of them laughed, but none of them had a plausible answer for it.

            “Look,” Jeyne spoke up. She unhinged herself from the others and plopped down on Sansa’s couch, swinging one leg back and forth. “It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow, and the semester starts tomorrow too. We don’t have to go boy-hunting, or _girl_ -hunting” – Margaery gave a sheepish shrug – “but at least let’s have some _fun_ before we die from homework.”

            “True true,” Margaery nodded. “Girls’ night out, just the three of us? And if we just _happen_ across someone cute, well, that’s fate, isn’t it?” She was smiling, really smiling – though it was definitely from the pre-drinks they’d been sipping on earlier. Wine and chocolate – what else could a girl need on Valentine’s Day? Still, Sansa hadn’t failed to notice how the Tyrell girl still kept her arms loosely around her. If all else failed, at least Margaery wouldn’t leave scars.

            Sansa looked between the two of them. She _had_ been moping during the winter break. Hells, she hadn’t even bothered to answer any of their calls. Had they not shared an apartment for college, Sansa wasn’t sure she would make the effort to see them at all.

            Well, Sansa hadn’t exactly been _moping_ for four weeks. Caring for herself, letting the scars heal in jagged streaks across her once-pure flesh. But caring for herself was more often than not locking herself in her room and relishing the cold feel of the stone walls. And because of the odd start-time of King’s Landing’s schools in February rather than in January, there was plenty of the empty Stark estate for Sansa to weep in without being caught.

            Sansa had thought she came to understand the depth of human wickedness after her unfortunate relationship with Joffrey. Joffrey Baratheon – the shining, gold-haired lion to sweep her off her feet. Sansa had never dreamed in any of her nightmares that there existed an evil far worse than that Lion.

            _No_ , she told herself. _He’s gone. He doesn’t have power over you anymore. You will be okay_.  

            Years had passed since her unfortunate fall-out with Joffrey. And in that time, Sansa’s fragile heart fell into the cruel hands of someone far worse.

            What Sansa would do to forget.

            She looked between Margaery and Jeyne, their eyes shining from a deep love for friends, and only partly from the wine. Was Sansa going to regret tonight? Probably. Would she finish off that bottle of moscato if she did something completely stupid? Oh, definitely.

            With a heavy sigh and a heavier push of reluctance, Sansa complied. “ _Fine_. But!” the girls were already jumping to get ready “– just the three of us tonight.”

            “Nothing says Valentine’s quite like a threesome,” Margaery chimed in.

            Sansa shoved her off to the sound of Jeyne’s laughter echoing with her own.

* * *

            Part of Sansa wanted to _murder_ Margaery. A hide-the-body-and-get-away-with-it murder.

            Here Sansa was, walking into a nightclub near campus, decked to the nines in something absolutely and unnecessarily revealing. She couldn’t help but feel the short skirt ride up her thighs with every step she took. And those heels! – damn if they didn’t make her legs feel miles long, but damn if she wasn’t going to be able to walk after a few drinks. Jeyne was dressed similarly, but Margaery… If Sansa’s clothing barely covered her boobs and ass, then by comparison Margaery was completely naked.

            _Girls’ night out my ass_ , she thought. 

            Sansa could _feel_ the eyes of guys and girls on them, even if so many others were as scantily clad. Maybe there was something in Margaery’s determined strides as she led them towards the bar. Maybe Sansa thought the pink neon lights followed them wherever they went. Maybe it was just the amount of skin they were showing. Definitely that last one.

            But her friends were having fun without having to care for their _moping_ friend. Sansa could do that for them – forget about her pain and fear, and let the excitement of the night whisk her away into a few hours of happiness.

            Forget – oh what she would do if she could. To forget about covering her arms and neck from where those scars glistened white in the club’s light.

            “That sounds disgusting,” Sansa said/shouted over the din of music and bodies.

            Margaery waved a hand at both the northern girls’ looks of sheer disgust. “Trust me. It’s not nearly as gross as it sounds.”

            “Can’t we just do some good-old-fashioned girly drinks?” Jeyne said/shouted. “You know, get drunk without knowing it?”

            “Of course! But before that, I want you guys to try this. If you _really_ don’t like it, I’ll buy you three rounds of those Valentine’s cocktails, on me.”

            Six shot glasses were set before Margaery, and she handed them out in pairs. One was the pale amber of whiskey, and the other-

            “Why would anyone willingly drink pickle juice,” Jeyne mumbled.

            Margaery clinked her whiskey shot with Sansa’s. “Bottom’s up.”

            The whiskey burned her throat, and the pickle juice only made that burn feel bitter and gross. She felt like throwing up but pushed it down.

            “Good _gods_ , Marg,” both Sansa and Jeyne said in unison.

            Margaery only laughed in reply, collecting their empty glasses. “I take it that’s a _no_ to the picklebacks? Must be a Highgarden thing. Fine, you guys want some lady Killers or Kiss on the Lips, or what’ll be your poison tonight?” Margaery didn’t wait before _generously_ ordering three of the fruitiest drinks. They were especially sweet and unnaturally pink – in homage to the romantic bastardization Saint Valentine at a college club. The _clinks_ of their glasses were barely heard over the rest of the room. “You know, being from the North, I’d have thought you guys to handle your alcohol better.”

            Jeyne shrugged. “I think it’s only the guys. I can’t imagine why anyone would willingly drink something so terrible when _these_ yummy drinks exist.” Sansa lifted her pinky drink in a _true that_ motion.

            Margaery plucked the cherry from her drink and let it sit between her teeth as she surveyed the room. Sansa wondered if she was scouting out for any cute boys for Sansa, and only doing it by habit rather than to egg Sansa into another relationship.

            That’s how they found _he-can’t-be-any-worse-than-Joffrey_.

            There must not have been many good prey tonight – Margaery’s eyes only lit up twice, and Sansa thought it might have just been the alcohol kicking in her system.

            It wasn’t until after another round of drinks were drunk – and Jeyne half-assed an attempt at tying the cherry stem with her tongue – that they found themselves on the dance floor. Sansa often found it claustrophobic, and with how scantily-clad she was tonight, she would have needed at least two more drinks before she found the courage. But with just the three of them, dancing (awkwardly) and singing (off-key), the rest of the nightclub faded away. Nothing else existed save wild giggles and soft curves as they danced and sang and lost themselves.

            Midnight was fast approaching when Margaery suggested/shouted that they check out this other club on the other side of campus. Sansa was too high on the feeling of happiness and alcohol coursing through her veins to remember anything but the laughter and warm press of her friends.

            “Alright!” she giggled/shouted into Margaery’s ear. “But let me go to the bathroom real quick!”

            In there, a woman complimented Sansa on her dress, and Sansa was envious of the woman’s eyeliner. Sansa was hardly drunk enough to not appreciate the effort it took to get the wings so perfectly symmetrical.

            When she finished up, Sansa tried to remember where she had left Margaery and Jeyne. She swore they said they would meet her right outside the bathroom, but all there was was a line of drunk girls with smudged lipstick and disheveled skirts. Sansa moved to right her own, suddenly feeling self-aware of how much skin she was showing.

            A minute passed. Two. After an entire song came and went, Sansa fished out her phone from her bra and found nothing but a dead screen.

            The nightclub was packed with students and definitely-not-students, enjoying both their final day before four months of academic hell, and the Valentine’s discount on drinks. Most of these people didn’t need these discounts – King’s Landing University was full of upper society, something that still felt strange to Sansa and Jeyne even after three years.

            Sansa waited by the bathroom for another song to fade in and out, gnawing a line into her bottom lip, before walking the perimeter. Had she left her friends by the bar? No, they weren’t there. Maybe by the back door? No. The front door? Nope.

            The warm fuzziness of the alcohol was slowly fading away into an empty dread of being alone. She didn’t want this – she wanted her friends and pink drinks and loud music. She wanted, above all else, to forget.

            “Do you need help?”

            Sansa turned to see the bouncer, an older, stocky man with an equal set of wrinkles and scars. She tried to remember his name but her mind was failing her. Out of all the times Sansa had come here, not once had she heard him say a word.

            “Um,” she began, shouting over the music. “I’ve lost my friends, and my phone doesn’t have battery. I don’t know if you’ve seen them?” Sansa described them and the color of their dresses. Part of her thought he might recognize them, there was something in the way his eyes shifted around and noticed everything. But part of her thought _Why would he?_ They were just any old college kids drinking their parent’s money away.

            “They left about ten minutes ago.”

            _…what?_

            “Wait? They just…left?” The man nodded, his mouth opening to speak before a fight broke out by the bar. The bouncer left Sansa. She mumbled a _thanks_ to him and wedged her way through the crowd by the door.

            The cold February air bit at the endless inches of her exposed flesh, and Sansa regretted not bringing a sweater.

            And then she remembered she did.

            “Shit.” They had taken Margaery’s car, since she was the only one who had one down here. And in that car was Sansa’s sweater, her phone charger, her friends. Her key to the apartment.

            She walked down the street, heels _clack_ ing against the concrete in clipped strides. The air was growing colder within and without.

            And there – the little mint-green sedan was nowhere to be seen.

            “Shit.”

            Sansa leant against the cold bricks, letting the heavy thrum of music echo from the building into her heart. She wished it could delve deeper into her mind, wished it could replace everything. Something deep and steady to replace all the nagging doubts that slept there.

            _I knew I should have stayed at home tonight_.

            She couldn’t call an Uber (her phone was dead, what luck), but she didn’t want to walk all the way back to her apartment in heels. It was at least a mile, maybe two. Sansa imagined if she was desperate enough she could flirt with some drunk boy to let her borrow his phone to call for a ride, or to get a ride from someone. On the morbid brightside, if someone wanted to act the gentleman and then turn into a monster, it wouldn’t be new. The other alternative was heading onto campus and sleeping in the library until class.

            “Are you alright?”

            Sansa wiped away the loose snot that was falling before turning to look at the man that approached.

            He wore simple, dark clothes, and Sansa wasn’t sure if he had come from the club too or was just passing by. The neon light falling from the nightclub highlighted the faint grey lining his temples. There was a book in his hand and the faintest whiff of alcohol on his breath.

            Still, there was something _familiar_ about him that Sansa couldn’t place.

            “Are you alright?” he repeated.

            Sansa blinked. “Um, yes, sorry.”

            He smiled. “Good, that’s good. I hope you weren’t stood up by someone?”

            “N-no. Well, not like you’re thinking.” The man cocked his head in confusion. Sansa looked around – there were a few other students standing on the other side of the club’s entrance. _What’s the worse he could be_ , she thought. _I’ve already fallen for the devil. Twice._

            “Um,” she continued, “well, my friends left without me, and my phone’s dead, and I don’t have my– Um, I don’t have a way to get home. So, um, if you don’t mind…”

            He let out a soft laugh. Sansa watched the neon lights bounce off the lazy curls of his hair. “It’s just not your day, eh?” Sansa felt her face flush in embarrassment. “I can call you an Uber, if you’d like? Since your phone’s not working.”

            At least she wouldn’t have to flirt with some drunken fool. But there was something about this man. Something about his voice, about the way he chatted with her so easily… She stared into his face, trying desperately to break through the hazy fog of alcohol and fear.

            “Is there food on my face or…?”

            Sansa shook her head. “Sorry, I… You look like someone I’ve met before…”

            The man tilted his head again, but not in confusion – there was something playful in the way the corner of his mouth turned. Something amusing. Finally he offered her his hand. “I’m Petyr, if that name rings any bells?”

            She shook her head. It did, but its sound was muddied from drink and from the fear of being left alone. She _knew_ the name and the slight lilt to his words – she knew she knew it – but still she couldn’t place it.

            After a few moments, Sansa took his hand. “No, sorry. I’m Sansa.”

            It was then – after that curt, business-like contact of hands – that Sansa remembered what she was wearing. Or rather, what little there was. A cold blush crept through her, and it took all her willpower not to overtly drag the hem of her skirt down to completely cover her ass.

            “So, Sansa,” he said, not even aware of the mental freak-out going on in her mind. “Did you want me to call an Uber for you? I’ll wait till they get here.”

            _Yes_ , said the voices of reason in her head. It sounded like a mix of her parents. The voice had been warning her not to talk to strangers, but this was different. A dire circumstance, of sorts.

            Still, politeness was etched into Sansa’s mainframe. “I really don’t want you to spend your money on a stranger…”

            Petyr crossed his arms, gently tapping the book against his side. “And I don’t think I could live with myself should something happen to you.” Sansa heard _in those heels and dress_ unspoken on Petyr’s lips. His eyes moved over her quickly, as if reading her thoughts, too. But it wasn’t a hungry look, more of an assessment. Counting how many blocks she would make it before _something_ happened.

            His voice cut through her thoughts. “Which direction do you live? I can at least drop you off nearby, if you don’t want an Uber.”

            The sound of her parents’ voices echoed over and over in her mind. How often had they drilled _don’t talk to strangers_ into their children’s minds? How often had the warned never to go into a stranger’s car?

            _He’s only concerned about you_ , Sansa thought. He’s like a father – and gods knew her father would go ballistic should he find out her daughter willingly went into a strange man’s car. No known power would stop Ned Stark from tearing the world apart for his children’s safety.

            And yet – Joffrey and Ramsay still walked the earth. Sansa never did manage to bring up certain aspects of her failed relationships with her parents. She just couldn’t deal with the _shame_ of people knowing how foolish she was.

            Sansa left her thoughts, stared at Petyr’s tilted head, waiting for her response. Perhaps there _was_ something else lingering beneath those mossy eyes. Not the same vileness that Joffrey and Ramsay kept hidden just long enough for Sansa to doubt herself. Yes – Sansa was sure she saw _something_. Or perhaps not. Perhaps all there was to Petyr’s gesture _was_ a noble sense of fatherly kindness.

            “Sure.”

            On and on the voices in her head screamed at her to _stop_.

            Sansa kept telling herself that as she let him walk her to his car. Kept telling herself it was only _kindness_ as he opened the door for her. Kept telling herself there wasn’t anything else she could do as she watched the door close with a soft _clack_.

            _Please gods – please don’t let me be wrong this time._

            It was well-past midnight already, but there were still several groups of students swaggering through the streets in various stages of drunkenness. Someone was passed out on the curb – or at least, Sansa hoped he was.

            The drive was quiet. There was the faintest scent of mint and cologne lingering on the leather. Streetlamps flashed by as they drove northwards away from campus.

            “Left here.”

            The streets were narrowing, but the crowds of drunkards weren’t. Sansa hadn’t been out this late much, she forgot how much King’s Landing U was a party school.

            “Right at the stop sign.”

            She had forgotten the last time she was out past midnight with people from school. Had forgotten how he plied her with sweet drinks and even sweeter words. Had forgotten how his hands weren’t sweet – they were rough and digging, dragging her away from the party in a pretense of _she’s not feeling well, I’m going to take her home_.

            She could feel the burning trail of her own blood on her arms and neck and thighs.

            She could feel it, now, the white lines on her skin. Could feel his hands and mouth urging her to _be quiet_ and _stop fighting_.

            There wasn’t enough alcohol in her to make the feeling of his body against hers go away.

            There was a gnawing unease in her tummy.

            And then it rose into her throat.

            Sansa barely managed to fumble the door open before her stomach upended itself on the street.

            “Good gods!”

            The car slammed to a stop, lurching Sansa forward in her seat. Whatever hadn’t already been spewed onto the asphalt came out in a second, bitter round.

            Sansa stumbled out of the car, her heels catching on the threshold. Her hands and knees burned on the asphalt. Sansa practically dragged herself towards the curb, collapsing onto it, huddling into the smallest ball she could. Maybe if she squished herself tighter and tighter she could disappear forever.

            Students were laughing somewhere down the street. The low rumble of house music, too, and even further away an annoyed dog barked into the night. A car door slammed.

            “Sansa.”

            She could feel vomit trickling down the corners of her mouth. It smelt awful, making her head dizzy.

            “Sansa.”

            The chilly midnight air swept across her hunched frame. Whatever excuse of clothing she wore did nothing to protect her from the cold tendrils of February winding its way around her limbs and chest and head.

            Someone sat beside her. Petyr, it had to be. “Sansa.” Yes, it was.

            Sansa kept her head pressed against her knees. She was shivering, and it wasn’t entirely from the cold.

            Petyr didn’t wrap an arm around her, didn’t force her to look at him or demand and explanation. He only sat there. He had to have been inches away from her, yet she could still feel the faint warmth emanating from him. She could smell the even fainter scent of mint beneath the sharp vomit.

            “At least you had the sense not to throw up all over my car. Thanks.” Sansa could tell Petyr was trying to pass off the damned thing as a joke, but she couldn’t find the courtesy in her to even attempt to laugh.

            “I can walk you the rest of the way home,” he continued, dropping the amused pretense. “If you want, of course.”

            The dark coils wrapped tighter inside her. What was it, exactly, that set Sansa at unease? Something about the way Petyr spoke to her, or sat beside her. Something about the way she was expecting, practically _waiting_ , for him to pry her arms and legs away. Something about the way that he did none of that.

            Kindness?

            Either way, Sansa wasn’t sure she. _He’s not Joffrey or Ramsay_ , she told herself, again and again. _They’re gone, you’re alive, you’re okay_. There were infinite ways Petyr could have had his way with a stupid, half-drunk college girl in a skimpy dress. Even now – tears and vomit staining her face and clothes, Sansa was sure the students that lived in these houses wouldn’t bat an eye to her pleas of _stop_.

            But it was dark and late and there was alcohol in her. Petyr might not force himself onto her, but something else might. It would be foolish not to take up his offer of kindness. How foolish to hobble back home alone.

            Oh, Sansa wanted to cry – she wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or fear or something else. Regardless, it sat uneasy in her stomach, coiled viciously in her head. Her words were muffled against her knees: “I, um, don’t…actually…have…my key…”

            She couldn’t look at him. She _knew_ what she was going to find there: confusion and ridicule, all beneath a sneering smile. _What a stupid girl_ , he would say. _What a foolish girl_. Sansa had seen that twisted smile and heard those harsh words far too many times.

            She could never do anything right.

            _Just leave me_. _Call me the foolish girl I am and leave me already_.

            Sansa didn’t look at Petyr, but she thought she could _feel_ the tenseness on his face. Was it because of her exes? A learned response – to recoil, to shrink herself. _Knowing_ that something was wrong. _Knowing_ that the man was two seconds from setting his fists against her.

            “Did you leave it at the club? I can ask Lothor if anyone’s returned a set of keys.”

            Sansa shifted her head infinitesimally to peer at Petyr between strands of auburn hair. He was staring blankly into the street, hands clasped atop a bent knee.

            She couldn’t help but wonder _why_ he was being so nice.

            She couldn’t help but wonder _when_ she started questioning the kindness of others.

            “No,” Sansa said finally, calming the shake in her voice. “I left them in a friend’s car.”

            Petyr fished into a pocket for a crumpled napkin, wiping off dirt (and vomit, maybe) from his pants. “And where is your friend?”

            “I…I don’t know. We were at the club together, but they just left.”

            He _tsk_ ed at a stubborn stain on his pants, crumpling the napkin and throwing it out into the street. It landed a foot away from the glistening puddle of her vomit. “Why would they leave _you_?”

            “I don’t know. But my phone’s dead, so I can’t call them.”

            Petyr stood and brushed off his pants. A car’s locks _beeped_ , and Sansa hadn’t noticed the soft purr of his car idling in the street. At the least, it wasn’t the worst parallel park in the world. “Here,” Petyr said, offering her his hand again. He hadn’t bent down to offer it like one might a small child. He stood, waiting for her to take it. Or not. “I’ll walk you home, see if your friends have gotten in yet. Perhaps they were too drunk to realize you weren’t with them on the way home.”

            “What if they aren’t?”

            He didn’t answer immediately. “Let’s hope they are.”

            Something glass broke down the street. Then yelling, and flesh hitting flesh.

            Sansa stood on shaking legs, grabbing onto Petyr for support. His grip was warm and solid, his other hand hovering beside her in case she stumbled.

            They weren’t far from her apartment. In fact, they were a block past it – Sansa had been so occupied in her thoughts she didn’t realize it.

            Sansa led Petyr through a small alley towards a side gate – it was always unlocked, which she thought unsafe, and always thought it would be convenient should she ever happen to forget her keys. She just never thought she actually would.

            Through a courtyard, past a gated pool, and up a fight of stairs. Their steps echoed against the concrete walkway.

            “Here.”

            Sansa ran her teeth against her bottom lip. She wasn’t sure if they were in, and wasn’t sure whether she _wanted_ them to be.

            Three soft knocks: _one two three_.

            Nothing.

            Again: _one two three_.

            Tighter the coil wrapped. Sansa had the urge to slam the door and scream _Fuck!_ loud enough to wake the entire complex.

            Nothing was going right. Nothing had been going right for weeks, months.

            “I guess they’re not in.”

            Sansa stared at the door’s handle, willing it to turn. “No.”

            Petyr had been leaning against the railing, watching Sansa silently praying that luck would be on her side just once.

            “Do you know your neighbors? Or do you have any friends nearby that you could crash with for the night?”

            He bottom lip was aching. She was likely to rub a tear in it with her teeth. _Any friends_ , it echoed. Sansa had two friends, and both of them abandoned her for gods-knew why. Her voice was quiet: “No.”

            Again, she could _feel_ the tenseness coming from Petyr. “I…” he began. Sansa wiped away the budding tears from her eyes before turning to face him. She was glad the walkway was dim – he wouldn’t be able to see the redness rimming her eyes. “It might be untoward, but I actually live in the complex next door. You could wash up and change clothes and call your friends, at the least.”

            Sansa was glad it was dim – he wouldn’t be able to see the redness creeping into her cheeks. “You’ve already done so much by getting me home.”

            He rose away from the railing. “I understand. Here’s hoping your friends come back soon, then.” Petyr took a step away, but he hadn’t moved any more – not closer to her, not further. As if _waiting_.

            She was gnawing at her lip again. _When_ would Margaery and Jeyne be back? They said they were going club-hopping, and gods-knew what sort of shenanigans Margaery would get them into. Neither of them had class until the evening – unlike Sansa, who had one at the crack of eight. And now without Sansa, they hadn’t need to hold themselves back.

            It was either wait outside her apartment at nearly one in the morning until likely dawn, freezing her ass off in practically nothing, with nothing but vomit and her thoughts for company; or…

            “Actually, Petyr,” she said, taking half a step towards him. “Um, if you don’t mind, I’d like to not smell like vomit.”

            Sansa thought – against the pale light – there was the slightest twitch to his lips. “Of course.”

* * *

            “I’ll go see if your friends are back yet.”

            Sansa watched as the door closed behind Petyr, listened as the lock flicked closed and his footsteps faded away.

            Part of her felt wrong. Being in a stranger’s home, alone; _allowing_ herself into a stranger’s home. Sansa didn’t fail to notice how Petyr had unlocked the door and stepped aside to let her in first.

            She turned around. The apartment was smaller than hers, but he was only one person. The furniture was new enough, high contrasting and clean. The bookshelves and tables, clean. There were two doors: one for the bathroom, and one for his room. Only the bathroom was open.

            She couldn’t help but wonder _why_ someone as old as Petyr would be living so close to a college. Granted, it wasn’t unusual for adults to go back to school in their thirties or forties or even older. Maybe that’s why he had the book – studying for an exam. For a class that hadn’t even begun yet?

            Sansa gave up and headed to the bathroom. She plugged her phone and left it on the counter, waiting for it to charge just enough to turn on. She didn’t look at her notifications though (she made sure to turn it on silent). Sansa scrolled through her music and turned it up louder than the roar of the shower.

            She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts.

            Petyr had given her a set of travel toiletries, which she thought weird, except she was glad to have her own things. They were simple, clean scents – nothing at all like the fruity shampoos and lotions she and her friends used. She tried to imagine someone like Petyr – twice her age, maybe, but not quite as old as her father – smelling like lemons and cherry blossoms.

            Her laugh echoed in the shower.

            There was a spare towel, too, but she had to resign and use his comb, hoping he wouldn’t mind. She got all of her long strands of hair untangled from its tines, at least.

            She wiped fog off of the mirror and stared at herself, standing in a stranger’s bathroom. Sansa saw her crumpled pile of clothes on the floor in the reflection.

            Then she lifted her gaze to the neat pile of clothes on the counter. The neat pile of Petyr’s clothes: only old pajamas, but still... Would it have been weirder should Petyr had spare woman’s clothing lying about his apartment? Perhaps. She couldn’t very well wear her own clothes again, not with them stinking like sweat and alcohol and vomit.

            Sansa pulled on the boxers first (she had thought of forgoing them, but blushed at the thought of not wearing any undergarments around a man she didn’t know). Then the pants, which to her surprise fell slightly high-water on her legs. Finally the white shirt over her head, the towel beneath her hair. She brought the front of the shirt to her face and inhaled the lingering scent of Petyr beneath laundry soap.

            It was nice.

            The song ended, and Sansa brought her phone and charger out to the kitchen, plugging it there. Petyr wasn’t back yet. He should be back in a minute or two – their apartments were literally across the street from one another.

            With nothing else to occupy herself with, Sansa finally looked through her phone.

            There were a dozen missed calls and as many unread texts. The first was from just before midnight, and the latest ten minutes ago. Apparently, Joffrey had sauntered into the club, making a commotion when the bouncer didn’t let him in initially, but weaseled in anyways. He then spied Margaery, who he admitted wanting to fuck while Sansa was still his girlfriend (he had admitted a _lot_ , especially when drunk). Margaery and Jeyne were by the bar (Sansa must not have seen them?), and the Tyrell had just enough alcohol in her to start a brawl. They chased Joffrey out of the club, following him with her car. Margaery (according to Jeyne) was attempting to Great Gatsby his ass, and that was the second-to-last message. The last text was simply _Where are u?_

            While she read through them, a mixture of amusement and confusion roiling in her, another text came in from Jeyne:

            _Just got back. Pls text/call, we’re sorry and worried :/_

            Sansa replied: _I’m okay. I’m with_ – who _was_ Petyr to her? – _a friend._

Not nearly, but she figured Jeyne would flip a shit if she said _strange old man that invited me into his home_.

            Jeyne: _Oh thank gods. I’m sorrrrry we left you!_

            Sansa: _It’s okay, I wish you told me though…_

            Jeyne: _I texted you! But you didn’t respond_

            Sansa: _My phone died, sorry._

            Jeyne: _Oh :/_

            Sansa: _Yeah_

            Jeyne: _Well you can come back home if you want? Marg knocked out but I can stay up till you get back?_

            She was halfway through a reply when the door opened. Petyr locked it before heading over to where she sat on a kitchen stool.

            “They weren’t home.”

            Sansa glanced at her phone. Jeyne’s ‘ _just got back_ ’ text was ten minutes ago. Sansa thought on the walk from her apartment to his – it hadn’t taken more than five minutes. Seven if you were dreadfully slow.

            She looked back at Petyr. He leant against the other side of the kitchen counter, his motions entirely casual. In the brightness of indoors, Sansa could see the threads of silvery grey amongst the green of his eyes. She swore she’d seen them before. She swore she’d seen them before – traveling away from her face, lower and lower. But not tonight, not now.

            “I see.”

            Petyr motioned to her phone. “Have you heard from your friends yet?”

            Sansa pressed _send_ on her half-written message. All it said was _I’m_. To be honest with herself, she hadn’t made up her mind what was going to follow it. _I’m on my way back home_ , or _I’m with a strange man who may have lied to me pls rescue me asap_.

            Or: _I’m fine, I’ll see you in the morning_.

            She hoped Jeyne fell asleep before she got it.

            “Yeah, they texted and called while my phone was dead.” Petyr didn’t press on, only stood and observed Sansa with a tilted head. His eyes remained on her face. And something about them – something about the unspoken urge to go on, that he was genuinely interested in her – made her continue. “They ran into my ex. One of them. And they… We’ll, they tried to give him what he deserved.”

            Petyr’s head tilted the other way now, his brows furrowed. “What _did_ he deserve?”

            _Death_ , was her first thought, but she shook it away. “A lot. He, um… He wasn’t the nicest guy, nor was the guy after him. He, they – they weren’t nice at all.”

            She wondered if he saw the way her body closed up on itself, or heard the crack in her voice.

            No, they weren’t nice at all. And no, she didn’t want to talk about them, to relive their words and hands and laughter.

            Sansa wanted to forget.

            Her phone flickered again. Jeyne only sent _?????_. Sansa moved to turn it off when she saw the time and date: February 14. Valentine’s Day. She heard Margaery’s playful voice: _that’s fate, isn’t it?_ She saw Margaery, cherry between teeth, scanning the room – and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if she had spied Petyr in the club.

            Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if Petyr had been staring at her: dancing and singing and enjoying herself, forgetting about everything that wasn’t the warm feel of alcohol and her friends.

            Sansa looked up at Petyr finally. And she was right – Petyr’s eyes moved. They traveled along the wet strands that stuck to the side of her face. Followed their path down her jaw and neck until they pooled at her shoulders. .

            She was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Painfully aware of the wet curls that had fallen from her shoulders and soaked through the shirt. Painfully aware that her nipples were now peaked through the wet fabric.

            Petyr’s eyes stayed there the longest before finally rising again, pausing briefly on the faint crescents ringing her neck. There wasn’t shame or embarrassment in his eyes at being caught. “I’m sorry to hear about your exes. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through.” There wasn’t pity in understanding just how _not nice_ her exes really were.

            She stared into his eyes. The silvered threads and the endless fields of dusk moss– they were gone, shadowed by something much, much darker.

            _Forget._

            Sansa could do that.

            “Petyr.” Sansa covered his hand with hers. His skin was warm, hot – it felt as hot as the wintry tendrils clawing within her were cold. She wondered – she _hoped_ – that even for a night, she might set those damned claws ablaze.

            He didn’t move as she rose from the stool. He didn’t say anything as she bent across the counter separating them, her face growing closer and closer to his. He didn’t close his eyes as she finally closed the gap with her lips.

            Petyr’s were soft, tasting of the winter night and mint. His fingers wrapped themselves about her wet hair, digging into her scalp and _claiming_. Their noses dug into each other’s cheeks as the kiss deepened. Somehow Petyr had eked her mouth open and slid his tongue inside.

            He pulled her body towards him, relishing the feel of Sansa, enveloping as much of her as he could get with granite between them. As close as he could get, as though she was the sweetest sustenance for a man dying of hunger.

            They broke away, mouths hovering only an inch from one another, their breaths heavy and mixed. Sansa could taste Petyr on her lips and tongue.

            His hands were still coiled tightly in her hair, but his voice was barely a whisper laced with lust. “Are you sure?”

            Sansa stared into his eyes – whatever faint traces of color were there were gone completely. She saw _hunger_ in Petyr. She _felt_ the hunger, felt the burn melting the ice. And most of all, she loved not thinking of anything else but the taste and feel of _him_.

            She only nodded before kissing him again.

            This one was less ravenous, less two people clawing for the faintest sliver of life. They knew what the other tasted like now, and they had the rest of the night to savor it.

            Sansa had her fingers wrapped in his hair, too, and it was as soft as she imagined. A nagging voice said _told you so_ but she ignored it.

            When they broke apart the second time, Petyr rounded the counter, backing Sansa into the granite. It dug into the small of her back, but the pain was ignored when his hands roamed across her body. Their lips met, soft kisses, soft bitings. She couldn’t see Petyr’s hands traveling down her – finally releasing their hold on her hair, fingers trailing lightly down her neck and collarbone and side, the faintest scrape of his palm against her breast. She couldn’t see, and it made Petyr’s touches burn brighter.

            His mouth was on her jaw, her neck. His fingers finally circled a breast, his thumb rubbing her nipple in small circles. The wet fabric only intensified the touch, only made her crave for _more_.

            Sansa trailed her own fingers to explore Petyr, leaving one hand tangled on his hair as a lifeline. Her other lightly scraped at his neck, at the faintest stubble coating his jaw, and down down until she found the hem of his sweater. His side and back were smooth and warm. She climbed her hand higher, the fabric following suit, until she found the muscles of his shoulders, felt them move beneath her fingers. She felt Petyr shudder as her fingers scraped his skin.

            Petyr’s mouth left her neck, and Sansa saw a wicked sort of smile curving his lips before he bent to duck his head underneath the shirt. Sansa couldn’t help but laugh – until his tongue lapped at her nipple, flesh against hot muscle.

            A moan had been building inside of her, and Sansa let it out. It only urged on Petyr’s ministrations: his tongue and mouth and hand were fully devoted to her breasts, fully devoted to bringing out her own burning pleasure.

            Sansa brought her hands around to Petyr’s front, the sweater bunching up beneath his arms. She couldn’t use her mouth in the same wicked way Petyr was, but she made sure to toy with him, too. Her fingers scraped at his sides, at his collarbone, until trailing down through the smattering of hair at his chest. Sansa’s fingers circled his nipples, round and round in the same motion of his tongue, feeling them harden. And then she ran over them with her nails. She felt his teeth bite down on her own nipple in response, and she couldn’t help but yelp at it. It hurt, but it felt _good_ , too, the pain. Their breaths were loud, her body felt hot – but she didn’t stop, they didn’t, couldn’t.

            Petyr countered her own wickedness and trailed a hand down her stomach. His fingers tickled against her skin, moving around to her side and back, They moved back to her front, rubbing against her hipbone. He was trying to feel all of her, too, she realized. To look for the soft, hidden inches of skin that would send the fire blazing and burning and melting any traces of ice within her.

            His fingers crept along the waistband of her (his) pants, one finger slyly digging underneath. Petyr moved it in rhythm with his other hand toying with her breast. Slowly, the one finger became two, and three, and then his hand was resting on her mound, his palm rubbing circles into her. Sansa gasped. Only the thin fabric of his boxers separated them.

            He struggled (only slightly) to free his head from beneath the shirt. His cheeks were red, and a playful grin was etched on his lips. “To think women’s underwear doesn’t already come with an easy-access panel…”

            Sansa started to laugh at the absurdity – but his fingers had found their _easy access_ through the flap of his boxers. One finger rubbed along the length of her cunt, small, slow strokes. Then his thumb joined, rubbing her clit in circles. They were slow motions, but they felt so _good_. She hadn’t realized how wet she was, how aching for his touch.

            He’d stopped playing with her breasts, stopped the playfulness in his eyes. The blackness there focused on Sansa – on her breaths and mewls and which rhythm of his fingers she found best. As if nothing in the world would stop him from watching Sansa come undone. Watching Sansa come undone because of him.

            His fingers slid inside her then, one and then two. Sansa gasped, her hands clutching onto his sides for support.

            She could smell the tart scent of her arousal, could feel her wall closing around Petyr’s fingers in rhythm to his strokes. They were slow at first, languid. All the way in, all the way out. Sansa moved her hips in time with his fingers, pushed against his hand as he thrusted in, sending a wave of pleasure burning hotter and hotter.

            Faster. With each thrust, Petyr’s thumb circled her nub faster, his fingers pushed in further. And Sansa followed, copying his rhythm, letting her body overtake whatever vestiges of thought and reasoning were left.

            There was a cliff, and Sansa was so damn near it. She couldn’t think of anything but the hot feel of his skin beneath her hands or the throbbing of her cunt around his fingers, in and out and in and out.

            She was so close to the cliff – she wanted to jump.

            “Petyr…I…”

            Gone – Petyr pulled his fingers away from her core. She hadn’t time to complain before he was shoving her boxers and pants off in one motion. In another, Petyr lifted Sansa onto the counter, spreading her legs apart and keeping them there with his hands. She had to clutch the opposite edge for fear of falling. It was almost painful, the angle he kept her legs at – but at the same time, it made her core throb with an equally satisfying pain.

            “Beautiful,” she heard Petyr murmur before he bent his head between her thighs.

            His fingers were amazing, but his tongue was so much better.

            Petyr worked slowly, devouring her, savoring every inch of her core with his tongue. Sansa was sure there wasn’t a speck of her that he hadn’t tasted, and he wouldn’t leave her until Petyr knew every single inch of her, every single motion that made Sansa come undone beneath him.

            She felt him drop one hand from her thigh. Sansa saw Petyr rubbing the hard ache between his own legs as his tongue continued to work in her. He moved faster now, less methodic and more purposeful. Sansa met his strokes with her hips, rocking into his face as his tongue dug further and faster.

            Her cunt had already been aching from his fingers that it didn’t take long before she approached that high cliff again.

            She was staring from the cliff’s edge, down at the endless drop below. Hot winds coiled around her. She _was_ the wind and the cliff and the mile-long drop into the dark ocean.

            Petyr brought his other hand above her mound, rubbing at her clit in the same rhythm as his tongue. It took only seconds before she jumped from the cliff and into the welcoming waters below.

            Sansa cried out his name.

            Her vision was white. Nothing existed save the pounding in her body and the sweetest ache between her legs.

            Her fingers hurt where she gripped the counter.  Her breaths were short, ragged things. She could feel Petyr continue to lavish his tongue upon her cunt, lapping up every last drop of her. By the time he finished, the burning high had fizzled into a comforting warmth. Sansa thought she could curl up and fall asleep for eternity.

            She met Petyr’s gaze from between her legs, his head gently resting on her thigh. His lips glistened, so did the tip of his nose. “I take it it was good?”

            Sansa’s own lips crooked into a smile. Her words came out between breaths: “I’ve had better.”

            Petyr pinched at the side of her thigh. Sansa couldn’t help but laugh.

            The wicked/playful smile turned his lips up again, reaching the corners of his eyes. Sansa thought she might not ever tire of seeing him happy.

            Petyr rose to kiss her, the salty taste of her release warm on his lips and tongue. Her heart was slowing down, her breaths too. But as Petyr’s body leaned in to wrap his arms around her, Sansa couldn’t help but feel the unmistakable hardness pressing against her leg.

            She untangled a hand from his hair and trailed it slowly down the length of his body. When she brushed her fingers against him, Petyr let out a low hiss into her mouth. “I might be able to help you with that,” she said.

            Petyr pulled his face back just enough to look into her eyes. The darkness was there – but it was soft and inviting. Sansa wanted to wrap herself up in that darkness, to wrap herself up completely in him.

            Petyr kissed the corner of her mouth, and she could feel his lips smiling against her skin. “I hope you don’t have class in the morning, Sansa, because you won’t be getting a wink of sleep tonight.”

            And she didn’t.

* * *

            Sansa sprinted up the stairs.

            She was going to be _so_ late. And on the first day of the semester.

            And what excuse did she have? Drinking and fucking a total stranger.

            She thanked the gods that Jeyne was suffering from a hangover when Sansa banged on their apartment door. Jeyne would only remember Sansa barging in to grab her bag and coat and spare key and a pair of shoes. Jeyne wouldn’t remember that Sansa was wearing men’s pajamas beneath her coat. Jeyne wouldn’t remember the disheveled auburn curls or distinctly not-Sansa scent lingering on her skin.

            Sansa could smell it even now as she ran. The smell of Petyr’s soap, and above it the smell of his skin. The feel of fingers on her, in her; the fullness of him as he thrusted inside her; her name moaned into her ear as he came–

            Sansa nearly tripped on the top stair.

            She looked at her watch: 8:20. Late, so late already. She couldn’t even remember _which_ class this was. All she saw was the room number and took off from her apartment.

            The door squeaked as she opened it, of course it would.

            Sixteen pairs of eyes fell on her.

            And one pair of mossy-green ones.

            Oh _gods_.

            Sudden dread filled every crevice within her.

            Petyr was her _professor_.

            Petyr – the man who made her come, the man who kept her awake until dawn and then left when by the time she awoke - was standing at the front of the room wearing a cocky smirk. _You bastard_.

            “You’re late, Miss Stark.”

            Snickers rose from the class. Sansa wanted to move her feet – to go into the class or run away, she wasn’t sure – but they felt covered in lead. She wondered if she looked as horrified as she felt.

            “Do you plan on wasting _more_ time, or will you finally be joining us?”

            Sansa forced herself into the classroom, taking a seat in the middle – and thank the gods she wasn’t stuck in the front row. She wasn’t sure if she could bear the humiliation for three hours every Monday.

            Sansa sat and listened to Petyr – to _Professor Baelish_ , she corrected herself – finish going over the syllabus and dive into the first lecture. Something about economics, something about money and all that. Sansa tried to focus on the lecture but her mind was elsewhere.

            She couldn’t help but wonder what he’d do were she to call him _professor_ in bed.

            Sansa looked at him, and as if by reading her mind, Petyr was already staring. She realized then that she was still wearing _his_ clothes. That she was still wearing _his_ scent, and _his_ marks were left all over her body.

            She slunked down into her chair, making herself as small as possible. Hoping that no one around her realized that Sansa just-so-happened to smell like their professor.

            She tried to push last night out of her mind, but every word Petyr spoke, every motion of his hands, sent every second of last night coming back to her. To her mind, to between her legs.

            And then the realization that during it all – from their chance meeting outside the club to the endless hours spent entwined in one another – Petyr had known _exactly_ who she was.

            _You bastard_.

            She had known, too. The nagging voice, the satisfying feel of his hair between her fingers – oh, Sansa had known, deep down beneath the alcohol and coiling fear, that she was fucking her professor into the wee hours of morning. And yet, she wasn’t embarrassed, or ashamed.

            And yet, she wanted _more_.

            Sansa caught his gaze again during the break, but she hadn’t the courage to go up and demand answers. Not in front of a class, at least. After class, maybe. Whether during office hours on campus or in his apartment might be up for debate.

            Petyr’s lips were turned in the smallest smile. Sansa couldn’t help but at least give him her own small smile, too. Before calling the class back to order, he mouthed four little words to her:

            _Happy Valentine’s Day, Sansa._

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Is the ‘accidentally fucked my teacher’ trope overused? For sure. Do I care? Hell no.
> 
> Also one of these days I’ll write a fic without angst in it… 
> 
> Also also, please don’t ever go into a stranger’s car, even if that stranger looks/sounds like Aidan lol. Pls stay safe, my friends.]


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